The Sixth Fleet

by David E. Meadows

  Keep ten. We may need them for food and drink.”

  “Drink?” Corporal Ghatan asked.

  “Yes, drink. You see. Corporal,” said Bashir, reaching down and grabbing one of the sheep by its scuff, “if you make a small cut here, you can drain some of the blood.

  Warm blood satisfies both hunger and thirst.” He released the sheep.

  Ghatan’s lips curled in disgust.

  “Well, you’ve just satisfied mine.”

  Bashir turned to a nephew and whispered something to him. The man ran to the road. Bashir’s nephew ripped a bush from the ground and began erasing signs of where the truck had turned off the road. Yosef motioned to a nearby Guardsman to go help Bashir’s nephew. He was still deciding whether to trust Bashir, but knew they had little choice at this time. They outnumbered the smuggler cum farmer if he decided the man was untrustworthy. They could always take the truck and abandon Bashir and his nephews. He turned to discover Bashir staring at him. The smuggler smiled, winked, and broke eye contact. Yosef would have been correct if he had surmised that Bashir knew what he was thinking.

  Bashir pulled himself up into the bed of the truck. The huge Arab waded through the remaining sheep to the back of the cab. There, he grabbed a dirty canvas sheet off the floor, sheep droppings rolling off as he unfolded it. Then, Bashir rigged the canvas so it ran from the top of the cab to halfway across the bed. He anchored it to the side rails.

  The smell of unwashed sheep over ode the smell of Yosef’s unwashed Guardsmen.

  “That will give some shade as well as something to hide under if we are spotted,” he said to Yosef. He looked at the woman and her child.

  “Saida, you should place yourself and your child here in the corner. The road ahead is very rough and the corner will help balance you.”

  Bashir helped her move.

  “When we arrive at my relatives, I have a cousin who nearly completed a year of medical school. He will attend to your wounds.” He patted her head and turned to Yosef, who watched through the rails and whispered, “He also treats the sheep.”

  The nephews helped Bashir down.

  “Where are we going?” Yosef asked. He shaded his eyes and looked south. Miles and miles of waist-high thorny bushes and rough arid land stretched from the road to the horizon. Beyond the horizon lay the Sahara Desert. No one would ever find them there, but who would care because few went in and even fewer came out. “Colonel, there is a small trail that only I and my friends know. We should be safe, Allah willing. By tonight, we should be at the village of my relatives.”

  “I seem to remember that there are minefields out here.”

  “Of course. Old World War II minefields, first laid by the Germans and then by the French and then later by the Americans and then later, after the war, the French again.

  By the time they finished, we had minefields on top of minefields, a polyglot arrangement of international death.”

  “I am assuming you know your way through them.”

  Bashir patted his ample stomach and laughed.

  “Oh, Colonel, you bring such mirth with you. I will tell you this. I have yet to be killed by any of the mines and if I am, then you are welcome to blame me on our way to paradise. Back on board, my friends! We have miles to go!” Bashir shouted, clapping his hands twice.

  The Guardsmen and Bashir’s nephews climbed onto the bed of the truck. Two of the nephews slipped the tail section in place as Bashir and Yosef hurried to the cab.

  The truck hit a bump as soon as Bashir drove off.

  “Try to make yourselves as comfortable as possible, Mr. President.”

  He reached up and took the sunglasses off of Alneuf.

  “Here, let me remove the tags, Mr. President.”

  Finished, he handed them back.

  “We have five kilometers to go before we turn into a small wadi that runs nearly the entire way from here to the other side of Algiers,” Bashir said, then mumbled audibly, “if we make the five kilometers without someone seeing us.”

  “Mr. Bashir,” Aineuf said.

  “We owe you a great debt for this.”

  “Mr. President, you owe me nothing, but if you want to pay me, let’s talk about that farm bill you sponsored last year.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Duncan paused inside the entrance to Combat Information Center, allowing his eyes to adjust to the blue lighting. He stifled a yawn. The commodore. Captain Farnfield, and Colonel Stewart were huddled over the plotting table in the center of the large compartment.

  Highly qualified petty officers were hunched over each console. Scattered, seemingly haphazardly, young seamen shuffled restlessly at assigned displays. Long black cords led from bulkhead sockets to sound-powered phone sets wedged tightly on their heads like fierce mandibles of warrior ants — fingers. constantly on the mouthpiece as they “rogered” and relayed information throughout the ship to other background peers on the sound-powered phone web of the USS Nassau. Like an uncoordinated Mexican wave, hands shot out as petty officers pressed buttons on consoles while others triggered radio circuits to relay information.

  All across Combat cool professionals manipulated sensors and weapon systems as the sailor warriors of the twenty-first century shared and coordinated elements of the task force, keeping the ships and aircraft in proper formation as, like a hurricane, the amphibious armada moved relentlessly toward its objective.

  Duncan weaved his way around the manned consoles-the low murmur of operations, a constant buzz in the background — until he reached the plotting table. The smell of sweat, old coffee, and fresh morning pastries filled the air.

  Duncan glanced at the clock: about an hour before reveille sounded. The last watch before reveille was an hour into its four-hour duty cycle.

  “… and how long has it been?” Duncan heard Commodore Ellison finish.

  “Hello, Duncan. Sorry to jerk you out of the rack, but thought you needed to be here.”

  “Commodore,” the Combat Information Center watch officer answered, “we last had contact with USS Gearing at nineteen hundred hours during routine comms check.

  Since then we haven’t had a reason to contact her. It was only when Radio tried to raise her a couple of hours ago for daily cipher change that we realized we had lost contact with her. I checked the logs on the other circuits and discovered she had failed to acknowledge any group calls during the night.”

  “What else. Lieutenant?”

  “We tried calling on secure voice, the electronic warfare net, the aircraft control circuits, and even the antisubmarine warfare net — no reply. I have the operators calling every minute on the minute in an attempt to reestablish contact.”

  “The Network Centric Warfare grid?” the commodore asked, referring to the tactical satellite warfare system connecting warships together digitally to share national and joint force intelligence, sensor, and surveillance information.

  The CICWO shook his head. “Checked, sir. She is no longer anywhere on the NCW, or even the global information grid. I have the information technicians checking to see when she dropped.”

  The commodore stroked his chin, then added, “Okay, inform me when we reestablish contact. Let’s give her twelve hours, but if we haven’t established comms by zero seven hundred hours, I want an aircraft to check on her.”

  The CICWO glanced at the twenty-four-hour digital clock above the plotting table.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He had nearly two hours. He turned and made his way to the air search console.

  The commodore pushed his bifocals back on his nose.

  “Gentlemen, European Command has finally gotten off its ass and given Sixth Fleet permission to break the Gearing off track. Of course, to break off, we got to contact them.

  Sixth Fleet has ordered us to sortie at flank speed to take station just over the horizon from Algiers. Since yesterday things have been going from bad to worse. Intell reports an American killed last night — executed by Algerian insurgents, who are going ape-s
hit and killing everybody and everything in sight! Ironically, remnants of the Algerian Army engaged the insurgents. They saved the remainder of the hostages from the same fate only to abandon them to their fate in an old Russian truck. They must have had God with them, for they made it to the American Embassy.”

  Ellison paused, then continued.

  “It don’t look good, men.

  The new Algerian revolutionary government, which no one knows who the hell they are or even where the shit they’re located, is rounding up foreigners — the ones they don’t shoot — and forcing them into the American Embassy compound.

  As of two hours ago the American Embassy had over two hundred refugees, of various nationalities, jammed into its small courtyard — a virtual United Nations of citizens from the sane world.”

  “They have electricity and water?” Duncan asked.

  Commander Mulligan, the staff intelligence officer, stepped out of the shadows into the faint light. Duncan wished he’d quit doing that.

  “Yes, sir. Captain,” Commander Mulligan answered.

  “They have the basic sanitary facilities, but trucks filled with non Algerian citizens are continuing to arrive. They started arriving around midnight and continued nonstop until about three o’clock. It’s tapered off some, but has not stopped.

  The embassy began redistributing the refugees to their respective embassies. This should reduce the impact on the limited American facilities. They started”—he looked at his Rolex watch—“about thirty minutes ago, around first light.”

  “Thank you. Commander Mulligan,” the commodore said, shoving his bifocals back on his nose. Every time he wrinkled his forehead or squinted his eyes they slid down.

  Ellison coughed and then pointed to the chart in front of them.

  “Gentlemen, this is where we are and this is where we are going,” the commodore emphasized, using his pencil to mark the two locations.

  “As soon as we reestablish comms with the Gearing,” he added, his voice rising. Then he shouted across Combat, “Lieutenant, you got comms with the Gearing yet?”

  “No, sir. We’re still trying,” the CICWO replied, rolling his eyes at the nearby junior CICWO.

  She rolled her eyes in reply.

  “As much as he likes to talk and buttonhole people, you’d think he’d be more patient,” she said softly to the lieutenant.

  “Damn. As soon as we contact her I want those Harriers recovered. You hear? I want them recovered!” Ellison yelled, and then turned to the three men around the table.

  “Then we’ll turn our noses toward Algeria and, our butts to Libya, sail through the Strait of Sicily. With luck, sometime late tomorrow night we’ll be on station just over the horizon from Algiers. Bulldog, how are you doing with your portion of the operations plan?”

  Colonel Stewart’s thin, razor-sharp frame made him look as if he were perpetually at attention.

  “Sir, my concept of operation is completed. When directed, the United States Marines will board two CH-53 helicopters while Captain James, with his SEALs, will follow on the CH-46. We’re going to have four Cobra attack helicopters with us. We will low-level into Algiers via the harbor route, thereby avoiding major municipal areas. The troop helicopters will loiter at the harbor to effect a four-minute insertion separation.

  Two Cobras will remain with them while the other two escort the troop helos to the embassy. I estimate four minutes from the harbor to the American Embassy. Marines inside the compound have cleared a landing site. The first CH-53 will land, disembark its company, rapidly load a contingent of evacuees, and depart. Time on ground will be four minutes. Commodore, four minutes will be the standard time for every operation in this evolution. Using the same time element helps reduce confusion and makes it easier for pilots and ground personnel to synchronize their actions.”

  The commodore nodded.

  “I’m impressed. Colonel.”

  “By the time the first CH-53 is airborne out of the embassy, the second 53 will be in the landing pattern. Same evolution for it; third helo will be Captain James and his SEALs on the CH-46. We’ll take evacuees out on it also.

  If the plan goes smoothly we’ll have three choppers full of evacuees airborne and heading out of Algiers in twelve minutes.”

  “Thanks, Colonel. I would like to see the written version on my desk following breakup of this meeting.”

  “Duncan, your guys ready?”

  “Yes, sir. Commodore. We have two teams; four SEALs to a team. Each team will be equipped with one sniper, one MG-60 per team, and one communicator. Every SEAL will also be outfitted for close-in combat support. I will command one team and Lieutenant Commander Pettigrew the other. Lieutenant Sunney will remain on board with the backup team on thirty-minute alert. Colonel Stewart and I have discussed our role. We will support the Marines where perimeter integrity appears vulnerable and take on any Lone Rangers. The snipers are available if we need them.”

  The hatch to CIC opened and a sandy-haired sailor in sharp-creased dungarees entered, his eyes searching the operations space.

  “Shut the door!” a voice shouted at him.

  He did.

  Seeing Commander Mulligan, the sailor walked directly to him. The intelligence officer took several steps away to meet the sailor, whereupon the two held a close, whispered conversation inaudible to the three men at the table. Duncan and the colonel tried to eavesdrop with no success as the commodore continued his diatribe.

  Commander Mulligan dismissed the sailor and rejoined the three captains.

  “Commodore,” Commander Mulligan interrupted, “things have really deteriorated in Algiers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The American Embassy tried to move the citizens to their respective embassies, as I briefed earlier. The truck traveled about fifty yards outside the compound before the Algerians stopped it. They ordered it back, at gunpoint, to the embassy. When the truck started to turn around, an Italian citizen jumped off and started running. Don’t know why, but the Italian Embassy is in sight of the American Embassy so he may have been trying to make it there. Instead they shot him before he ran twenty feet.”

  “They shot him?”

  “Yes, sir, but it gets worse.”

  “Not for the Italian it doesn’t.”

  “At that time he was still alive, sir.”

  “At that time?”

  “Yes, sir. Three Marines at the gate ran to the truck, believing it was under attack, and, needless to say, a small firefight broke out, with two of the Marines being wounded and several of the insurgents being killed. One of the insurgents, as he ran for cover, put a bullet into the head of the Italian when he passed him. A Marine shot and killed the Algerian who killed the Italian. Marine security force personnel poured out and surrounded the truck and escorted it back inside the compound. No more shooting has occurred.

  It appears we are at a standoff right now. The embassy reports more Algerian troops arriving and taking position around the American Embassy. The ambassador says she believes they are preparing to attack the embassy.”

  The commodore spun on the CICWO.

  “Shit! Lieutenant, have you gotten the Gearing yet?”

  “No, sir. Still no joy.”

  “I don’t have to tell you that if they attack our embassy, it’s a whole new ball game. President Crawford ain’t Carter,” Ellison said, then yelled at the CICWO, “Have you tried INMARSAT?”

  “No, sir. Commodore. You said we were never to use it.”

  “Well, I think you can use it for this, don’t you!” He lowered his voice and looked at Duncan.

  “I hate using INMARSAT.

  It costs an arm and a leg from our OPTAR to pay for it and it’s insecure as hell. Except for the security aspects I wish military comms were as effective as their commercial counterparts.” The CICWO reached for the INMARSAT handset located beside the captain’s chair.

  At that moment a secure voice speaker above the plot table interrupted the comm
odore.

  “Sixtyone, this is Air Force Romeo Charlie One Three Five on track western Mediterranean. Interrogative my comms The CICWO replaced the INMARSAT handset and picked up a nearby microphone.

  “Air Force Romeo Charlie One Three Five, this is Sixtyone.

  I read you fivers, go ahead.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” the commodore said.

  “The EP-3E went off station nearly an hour ago. The Rivet Joint is here. The RC-135 is the best reconnaissance platform around. But, whatever you do, don’t tell the Air Force.

  Their heads are big enough as it is. If they knew the Navy thought that, they’d being doing the Mexican wave at their base in Mildenhall. CICWO, did they bring protective air cover and tanker support?”

  “Rivet Joint, interrogative your air cover and fuel support?”

  “Sixtyone, I’ve got an F-16 Fighting Falcon, armed to the teeth, under each wing. Sigonella air station KC-135 scheduled for top-off at ten hundred hours. Wait one. Sixtyone.”

  few seconds later the RC-135 returned on the circuit.

  “Sixtyone, Fighting Falcons prepared to escort Rivet Joint over Algeria if so desired.”

  “Right!” said the commodore, sarcastically, to the three officers.

  “I’m going to give permission for an unarmed RC135 with only two fighters to overfly Algeria?”

  “Sixtyone, stand by for Rivet Joint Sitrep One. We are showing large-scale military movements in Algeria toward the eastern and western border areas. Additionally, a massive search is under way approximately forty-five kilometers east of Algiers with helicopters and ground troops. We are still evaluating the raw data, but onboard analysts’ opinion is that they may be searching for President Aineuf, who dropped out of sight two days ago. We are seeing a lot of isolated fighting around the country, much more activity than we have the resources to cover. Therefore, a lot of the minor stuff is being tossed into the bit bucket for later processing.”

  The communications circuit dropped for about fifteen seconds before resyn ching with the aircraft.